


Dashing Through The Snow

by xbrokendollzx



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad writing drives him insane, Bard causes a distraction, Bard thinks Thranduil needs to relax, Book Shop Owner Thranduil, Humor, M/M, Near Christmas fluff, The bi dads make up their own Christmas jingle., The kids are so done with their shit, Thranduil is NOT working on Christmas Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbrokendollzx/pseuds/xbrokendollzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Dashing through the snow, your book bloody sucks,”  Bard sang under his breath, resting his head on Thranduil’s shoulder as he flipped through the pages of the manuscript cringing at its contents.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Find another career, in which to make a buck.” Thranduil supplied, lips twitching.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dashing Through The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> And here is my contribution to the Christmas fics~ I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

Thranduil sat at the desk of his Home office, head bent in concentration as he sifted through the excess of paper that was spread about it. Due to the fact that the holidays were coming, Publishers were currently swarming his Bookstore with their Christmas themed Bodice Ripper Manuscripts and Thriller Novels. Joy.

As much as he despised having to handle such monotonous tasks, it was extremely necessary that he go over these particular forms himself with a fine toothed comb. Propping an elbow up on the desk, he dropped his chin into his palm and began to fiddle with the idea of Phoning Haldir to give them a quick once over. The Man would probably have his head if he knew he were still awake. 

He smirked. Or perhaps he should have His Husband, with his sharp tongue and good eye for talent, do it instead. The Bowmans seemed to be quite good at that, as Tilda had once managed to weed out two very successful Children’s Authors when Thranduil brought her to the meeting as his little “Consultant.” Bain, Sigrid and Legolas? Forget it. Authors who tried to pass off novels filled with angsty teens and proms gone wrong as legitimate had their manuscripts sent back. 

Complete with little notes and corrections from the Children in the margins.

Thranduil personally believed that doing any kind of business with anyone equated to throwing oneself into a sea of Sharks. Only the truly naive believe would that there was no harm in it, for as soon as blood is drawn they were absolutely guaranteed to swarm. It was not paranoia. It was being an intelligent business man. Publishers? They were a different story.

There were many publishers who thought him to be unreasonable, but that was merely because he liked to sample his product, meet the Author. Being on the newspaper’s “best seller’s list” did very little to impress him. If a their work was sub par he would not insult his customers and their good taste by distributing it, nor would he be paying those ludicrous prices just to have it accumulate dust on his shelves. 

And there was no way that Thranduil was allowing any of those egotistical little Cretins, who truly believed that they had accomplished something because their atrocious novel was acclaimed by a few middle aged housewives, anywhere near his Shop. 

“Last I checked you were in bed. Next time, I’ll see to it that I tie your arse down so you can get some proper rest.” There was a soft “click”of the lamp being switched on, and the pad of approaching footsteps on his oak floors.

“Oh dear. Have I been caught? Am I to have my privileges revoked?” Thranduil smiled when his computer reflected his husband dressed in those blasted tattered up plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt, rubbing his eyes in a very Tilda like manner. He attached his rejection letter to a remarkably bad manuscript with a paper clip and made a mental note to “lose” them in the laundry.

“You know, that’s a damn good idea. I find that you’ve been rather naughty.” 

Thranduil scoffed, tossing the manuscript into the “No” pile before reaching for another. “You wouldn’t last.”

Bard intercepted his hand and went to work on it, dragging his his thumbs up his wrist and across his palm. “You _never_ last.”

Thranduil only glanced at him over the top of his reading glasses and huffed. “I will not dignify that with a response.”

“I only jest, M’love.” Bard laughed. “You’ve always been caught, for the record. I’ve just never felt inclined to come and retrieve you because I felt that all my efforts would be futile.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes and leaned back into the rough hand that worked its way up the back of his neck, fingers delving into his hair. “I’ve too much to do to afford the luxury of rest.”

“It’s Holiday season and I am here to tell you, that the only one that feels inclined to sit at his desk reading absolute shite in the name of work,” Bard leaned over Thranduil’s shoulder with a playful grin “ _Is_ you.” He dipped his head to press a kiss to his lips, and plopped down next to him on the stool that he was sure Sigrid had once occupied before Thranduil shooed her off to bed. “What have we here? _‘Mistletoes and Mischief?’_ this person must be kidding.”

“Ah yes, one of my favorites. It’s so terrible that I can quote it. The most amusing part of it all is that Mr. Ernest Peterson, is not at all kidding. I was thinking of giving it to Tauriel as a gag gift for that cheeky little prank she pulled in April.”

“You mean the one where she had hundreds of L'Oreal boxes printed out, with your face on them?” Bard recalled, much to his Husband's irritation.

“Yes. That one.”

Bard grinned, clearing his throat. He held the manuscript at eye level as he began to read in a exaggeratedly sultry tone as Thranduil watched with interest, crossing one long leg over the other. 

_“And she pulled the sheet up to her chest, not sure if this is what She wanted. Mara was afraid of Love and all of the trials and tribulations that came with it...but perhaps this didn’t have to be Love? Perhaps...this could be something purely physical. This man would hurt her in the long run, but she trusted her body to make the decision for her.”_

_“And her body screamed yes.”_ Thranduil finished. 

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake.”

“Awful.”

“What the hell is this?” 

“I would advise him to keep his misogynistic fantasies to himself the next time he wishes to write a novel for women.” Thranduil pulled off his reading glasses. 

_“Dashing through the snow, your book bloody sucks,”_ Bard sang under his breath, resting his head on Thranduil’s shoulder as he flipped through the pages of the manuscript cringing at its contents.

 _“Find another career, in which to make a buck.”_ Thranduil supplied, lips twitching.

_“Your writing is a joke, your Characters are too,”_

_“If you think that you have talent, you truly are a fool.”_

Bard paused and looked over at his Husband who tilted his head in that curious way of his, eyes widening innocently. “What? What have I done now?”

They both burst into a fit of giggles, Thranduil pressing his knuckles to his mouth in a an attempt to stifle them as Bard let his head fall onto the desk. “My god, you are _such_ an arse!” 

“Stop it,” Thranduil batted at Bard’s shoulder weakly as the snickers began to overpower him once more. “You’ll wake the Childre- _Bard!_ ” His face went red when Bard fell off of his stool. He covered his face, head falling back as he lost himself in the pure absurdity of the situation. 

Bard lay on his side, leaning up to wipe a stray tear from his eye as he struggled to catch his breath. The circumstance may have been incredibly childish, but It had been a long time since he and his Husband had a good laugh and it felt so very good. So natural. He looked up at Thranduil, who’s Long and usually immaculately done white-blond hair tumbled down his back and over his shoulders in messy waves, contrasting against his fair skin that was now slightly tinted pink from his prior laugh attack. Those beautiful eyes of his shimmered with mischief, amusement...and pure happiness. 

Yes. _Yes._ This is the man who he absolutely adored, stripped of that silly cold front he put on for all those outside his family. This was his Thran.

Thranduil’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Bard?”

Without thinking, Bard reached forward and took hold of Thranduil’s slender calf and yanked. Before he knew it, he was laying on his back with an armful of his flustered Husband. Thranduil lifted his head and lifted a hand to push his hair out of his eyes. “You are insufferable.”

“I am an adult.”

“Indeed.” Thranduil leaned in with the intention of capturing Bard’s lips once more, but jerked back when a loud “EW” rang out in the room, along with an array of protests coming from the irritated looking children that now crowded the doorway in their different versions of pajamas.

“Ada. Da. It is three in the _morning_.” Legolas moaned, head turned as to avoid having to see any more than he wished to. 

“And you two are in here making a racket loud enough to wake the friggin’ dead!” Bain scolded, earning an elbow to her ribs from Sigrid. She didn’t

“I think they’re sweet…” She frowned. “Loud, but sweet.” 

Bain rubbed his ribs gently. “What a kiss up. Anything to get that new laptop, huh? You’ve _won_ , Sigrid. You are the best child. It’s already under the tree-”

“Shut up, Bain!”

Tilda, who remained completely oblivious of her siblings as they argued just giggled. “You’re both silly. What are you doing on the floor? That’s not very comfy.”

She wandered over to the two men lying on the floor and nearly tripped over the bottoms of her over sized night pants in the process, almost sending Thranduil into a panic. He exhaled when Tilda nestled himself between them, lifting a hand to smooth her messy hair. “I don’t know Ms. Tilda. You seem rather comfortable where you are now.”

Bard kissed her cheek. “So don’t complain, Munchkin.” 

After the hostility between Bard’s two eldest died down with intervention by Legolas, and interjections by Bard and Thranduil, one by one, their children began to join them on the floor.

Sigrid was first, choosing to curl up next to Bard with her head on his chest. "Stop hitting your brother." Bard had scolded, before dropping a kiss on her forehead.

Legolas took his place by Thranduil, laying back on his legs. "Legolas, refrain from shooting at the neighbor's trees with your bow." Thranduil murmured to his son as he gave him a kiss on the temple.

And Bain, not wanting to look like some sort of kid, went last and stuffed himself in the middle with Tilda. "Stay from under the Christmas tree." They both told him, giving him kisses despite his protests. 

Little Tilda had already fallen asleep. But she would be reminded to keep her little hands out of the cookie packets in the morning.

Thranduil and Bard remained awake as the quiet chatter was slowly enveloped by soft snores, and even breathing as each child drifted off. 

“Oh, and Thran?”

Thranduil turned his head in the direction of his lover. “Hm?”

“I love you. But tomorrow is Christmas eve, and so help me, if you even _attempt_ to get up to open that bloody book shop of yours tomorrow I _will_ submerge your car and house keys in the nearest river.”

“Yes, Dear.”


End file.
